


Concentration and Other Consecrated Grounds For a Demon With ADHD

by Ourladyofresurrection



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A bit of a drabble, ADHD!Crowley, Also justice for Crowley’s plants, An idea I intend on extending, Aziraphale helps, Fluff, I’m baby, Kind of an abrupt ending but guys its okay, M/M, collection of moments, poor Crowley is having a hard time, rsd is a bitch, this is entirely self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ourladyofresurrection/pseuds/Ourladyofresurrection
Summary: With the help of Aziraphale, Crowley finds some very effective ways to cope with a very human problem he’s having.(Based off the prompt: “That was a suspiciously productive day”)





	Concentration and Other Consecrated Grounds For a Demon With ADHD

**Author's Note:**

> This is based of of this post on my Tumblr account!:
> 
> https://yourlocalshaniac.tumblr.com/post/185948053256/okay-butwhere-are-the-fics-of-crowley-with

* * *

Angels, contrary to popular belief, are not without fault.

Humans, as they often do, tend to take this particular truth and misconstrue it to fit their personal preferred narrative because they like the idea of something holy, of something pure.

Truth be told, nothing exists purely— the second a child is born, they have been touched by outside forces, not one of them being the touch of God.

This fact would outrage mortals everywhere, no doubt about it. But really, it was for the better, as God played Her own unfair game of chess, using everyone else as pawns in the Ineffable Plan. To remain untouched by God is one of life’s greatest virtues.

If this holds true, it would make it the only virtue that Aziraphale never had to begin with, though the rest of them are rapidly crumbling the more he strays away from Heaven.

Crowley, the fallen angel that he was, was no exception to this fact. He was born with the will to ask too many questions, the inability to adhere to rules, and, well, ADHD.

An odd thought it was, really. For a divine creature such as himself to have a fault so...human.

It was laughable, really. After all, how would an angel-turned-demon even come across such a revelation? It’s not as if Heaven or Hell, for that matter, have readily available psychological services.

It’s not like Heaven or Hell have periodic parent-teacher meetings where archangels can talk about how Crowley is a wonderful asset to the team, but that his distractability was unsavoury.

Because of this, Crowley would have probably spent the next hundreds of millennia unaware that there was something not quite so within him, apart from the whole ‘cast-out-of-hell’ deal.

It was Aziraphale, in fact, who had brought it up after venturing out of his usual sonnets to read about the human mind after a particularly odd encounter with one.

“Dear boy,” he had said, gazing up from his book to see Crowley hung upside-down off his couch like a bat, “have you ever considered that you may have ADHD?”

“That I may have what?” Crowley responded, his ‘what’ sounding more like, ‘wot.’

“ADHD.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Well,” Aziraphale hums, flipping through some pages, “it’s a brain dis—difference,” he corrects himself, seeing Crowley staring defensively at him, “the symptoms include fidgeting, talking very fast and sporadically, erm, sensitivity to criticism...”

“Oh, come on, angel, you can’t possibly—“

“Extremely focused interests,” he interjects, “Queen, ducks, houseplants...”

“That’s in there?” Crowley gapes, falling into the seat next to Aziraphale, squinting at the pages.

“No, dear boy, I’m just saying—“

“God, Aziraphale, I don’t know how you read these things. My mind...checks out after the first few paragraphs,” he drawled, waving his hand around absentmindedly as he spoke.

“Interrupting frequently, difficulty reading,” Aziraphale pointed out on the pages.

Crowley bit his lip, sighing, “Son of a bitch...”

Aziraphale just lay a hand on his shoulder, patting it slightly, “Don’t worry, Crowley, I’m sure we’ll figure it out. After all, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

* * *

‘Zira was right— after about a year or two—which was a monumentally short amount of time for eternal beings, they had somewhat developed ways to wrangle with Crowley’s...differences.

Like when Aziraphale wanted to sit down and read alongside Crowley so he too could ‘enjoy the blessings of literature.’

This, as one might expect, did not go swimmingly. While Aziraphale adamantly turned pages every minute or so, Crowley found himself stuck on the same page, brows furrowed in concentration, or frustration, as he tried to read.

“Angel, this isn’t working! The words just...melt off the page or something. I’m...elsewhere,” he whined, shooting deadly glares at the book.

“My dear, I do hope you’re not trying to traumatize the paper as you do with your plants! That is a first edition Oscar Wilde manuscript!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, “Forget it, it’s not working. I’ll just go home and yell at my ficuses— maybe scare them the pulp so we can add to your book collection.”

“Crowley, dear, do stay!” Aziraphale pleaded, reading glasses falling unceremoniously into his lap as he reached for Crowley’s wrist.

After an exchange of stares, he conceded, sitting back down beside Aziraphale and leaning his head lazily against his shoulder as he read aloud to him.

* * *

A few months after that, Aziraphale had popped over to Crowley’s flat unannounced. Of course, being an angel and all, that was a serious breach of polite etiquette, but after narrowly avoiding Armageddon, it was becoming more commonplace to just slip in and out of each others’ lives like a closely wound tapestry.

He brought macarons with him, and cold brew coffee for Crowley. Why anyone would wish to drink coffee cold, Aziraphale would never understand.

He entered to the sounds of yelling.

“BLASTED THINGS! I LEAVE YOU FOR ONE SECOND AND YOU DO THIS?”

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed for a moment before he smiled, ah, Crowley simply must be tending to his plants again. The poor things.

But his smile fell flat once he ceased to hear the telltale signs of the garbage disposal warbling to life, and instead was met with the soft sounds of sobs.

“Crowley?” he called gently, tentatively, following the sound, stumbling upon the distraught looking demon, surrounded by his plants who looked, well...

“Dead!” he choke out, pointing uneasily at them, “they died!”

“Oh...heavens,” Aziraphale murmured, holding a hand to his chest, “Crowley, do you think this was because you yelled at them or—“

“I knew what I was doing, Aziraphale, I’m not a monster! I didn’t, I didn’t kill them—“

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, touching his shoulder gently, trying to subtlety ‘miracle’ a little bit of his anguish away.

“Aziraphale, tell me I’m not a bad, a bad—“ he spluttered, sniffing.

“You’re not bad, Crowley,” he hushed him, sinking down on the floor with him and hesitantly holding him closer in effort to comfort him.

The demon was surprisingly responsive, burying his nose into Aziraphale’s jacket, “I’m a demon, I’m not nice—“

“Yes, yes, dear. I know. I never said you were nice...maybe just enough...just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, perhaps?” he tried, parroting what Crowley had said to him after the false Armageddon.

Crowley let out what sounded like a small chuckle. Aziraphale held one of his hands, nodding toward the plants, who were starting to revive themselves, on account of a small miracle the angel had performed.

“See, Crowley? They’re quite alright. You’re quite alright.”

He looked down to see the demon staring up at him through glassy, orange eyes, pupils dilated like a cat. If Aziraphale looked hard enough, he could see some of the stars Crowley helped build before he’d fallen from Heaven reflecting in his eyes.

“I brought macaro—“ he started, cut off by the gentle press of Crowley’s lips against his own.

“Oh!”

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley murmured, nuzzling against his cheek, “thank you.”

* * *

After that, things worked a lot more efficiently. Aziraphale figured out quite soon after that that Crowley was very much incentive-motivated, and that they could use this to their advantage.

The first time they tried it, it was an overcast Friday afternoon, with rain pouring outside onto the streets and water collecting along the sides of curbs, ruining any chance of driving.

“Who even makes it rain on a Friday,” Crowley had complained, draping himself over Aziraphale’s lap.

“Why, Crowley, it’s the perfect opportunity to make some hot cocoa and read!”

A grumble in response, a muffled reply from where Crowley’s mouth was pressed against the couch’s arm.

“What was that, my dear?”

Crowley had lifted his head, hair askew, muttering, “I said ‘wahoo’, now will you let me sleep?”

“No, you’re going to try this again.”

No response.

“Crowley, you better not be turning into a snake on me!”

A hiss.

He looked down, and sure enough, there was Crowley— snake of Eden, fire and brimstone, ‘not nice, never nice’ demon Crawley, curled up petulantly on his lap, in all his serpentine glory.

Aziraphale sighed, but failed horribly to mask the affection behind it. He gently stroked his finger down his scales, thoughtfully, “What if— for every page you read, I give you a kiss?”

Suddenly, the familiar weight was back on his lap, a discombobulated looking Crowley looking up at him, “What?”

“You heard me,” the angel smiled, “deal?”

He had never seen Crowley move so quickly— quite a feat in those tight jeans of his.

_That was a suspiciously productive day._


End file.
